Poetry Sunday: July by Helen Hunt Jackson
Can it really be July? My garden says yes. The "flowers are withered" and "joys have died." Only the water lilies look fresh and unwilted. But "the white heat pales the skies" and I can't remember when we last had rain. It is unbearable to be outside in the middle of the day. Only in the early morning or late afternoon is it possible to be somewhat comfortable and to enjoy being outdoors. Already I'm longing for October. But first, we must survive the heat of July and August and hope for some reprieve in September.
by Helen Hunt Jackson
Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,
Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;
The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;
She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.